


how can i be a hero

by Pearly_Pornography



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Doomstar Spoilers, Flashbacks, Gen, It Jumps Around a Lot, Spoilers, this one's sort of weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-08 17:14:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8853532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: there's nothing heroic about DethklokSome un-heroic anecdotes from the lives of the four remaining members mid-Doomstar.





	1. I screws more girls than Wilt Chamberlains

He felt tightness around him. A long, low whine drew from his throat. Sweat covering his inexperienced body, licking up like the fires of hell. His legs fell around her body. (Gunnella Carlsson, he believed her name was, though it didn't really matter.)

"Oh, Skwisgaar." She breathed into his ear. He grunted, loud, having never really done this before. His lips curled and toes flexed.

"Gunnie..."

He wanted to repeat it like a mantra. He wheezed, so fucking nervous. He didn't want to be like mom, but finally he could see through her eyes. How good it felt. How sickly good it felt, his fingers curling and heart thumping in his chest.

"Skwisgaar, ams you alright?"

"...Huh?"

"You's cryins."

He wiped his face. Moisture, indeed. He shook his head, shrugging it off.

"No problem heres."

That was the first time he had sex, and also the first time he well and truly bottled up his emotions.

-

"Skwisgaar, we needs to haves a conversation."

He looked up from his guitar, plucking the strings without another word. His mother had her hand on her hip, judgmental, harsh, lips pursed and eyes half-lidded. He grunted in acknowledgement, allowing her to continue speaking. "Stops having yous womens over. You ams just turns sixteen, and already, you fucks everyones you meets."

"Ja." He blinked, nonchalantly turning away. "Sounds like someone I knows."

"Skwisgaar." She squinted. "Don't talks to your mother that ways."

"If yous cans bes a slut, so cans I."

"Do not call me a slut."

"You ams one."

Serveta looked at him, half-offended and half-enraged, before turning heel and walking away.

-

"It's good to meet you." Charles spoke between his legs. What an unexpected way to meet his new manager.

"Ja, it ams goods to meet you as well."

He wasn't sure how him and Offdensen had gotten in this situation, but he'd made an offer, and frankly, Skwisgaar considered himself quite sexually fluid. His legs tensed. "Cumming." Charles didn't even come up from his post, and swallowed, still in his clean-pressed suit with barely a hair out of place.

"So, you say you're interested in the music business, correct? I'm planning on becoming a manager myself."

"Managements? You could makes loads in porn with talent like thats."

"Well, you're not the first person to tell me that."

"Really?"

"Sure. This is the music business." He sighed. "You didn't even tell me your name until I was, um... halfway through going down on you."

"Oh, ja, uhm, in my family sex ams..." It was Skwisgaar's turn to sigh, averting his gaze to the floor. "You know, normals."

"Well, if you and I go far enough, it may very well become more normal."

"I likes de way you thinks."

-

His whole body felt sick. He passed the bottle to Pickles, who took a swig, and passed it down to Nathan. He sunk back into the couch cushions, only half-paying attention to whatever Japanese gore movie they were watching that night. His belly grunted, and brain struggled with the alcohol in his body. Frankly, in Sweden, he wasn't much of a drinker.

"Skwisgaar, you ain't lookin' too good." Pickles remarked as he slumped over.

"Ja, I thinks I hads a little too much."

"Alright, dood, take care a' yourself. We already had to cut Murderface off." He motioned towards their bassist, who was completely unconscious on the floor, covered in his own puke and urine. Someone had the decency to lay him on his side, but honestly, Skwisgaar didn't remember who.

"Well. Here's to our first official album."

Pickles held the bottle high, throwing his other arm around Skwisgaar's shoulder. "And here's to our new rhythm guitarist."

Toki rose his bottle too. It was just orange juice, though.

-

Why wasn't Skwisgaar heroic, he asked himself. He was the best man alive, after all. Every woman wanted him. Was there something he had to do? Was there something he had to say, or be good at? That was stupid.

He looked at himself in the mirror, and realized it'd almost been twenty years since he lost his virginity.

An accomplishment, and yet at this point, if he met another Gunnie Carlsson down the road, it'd be nothing new. What was special back then no longer had merit. That was it. That was what held him back. He no longer had any reason to do anything. Because the things he did were meaningless. Because they were so, so meaningless. 

Because he had no drive, no ambition and no power, Skwisgaar Skwigelf was no hero.


	2. I get everything for free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tomahawk, Wisconsin.

Age 6. June 27th. The weather was warm, and he was in pain. Dillon R. Schumacher, a shy, red-haired young boy with freckles dusting his pale face, scraped knees like a real country boy, sitting on the dock with his back bared. Toes in the water. It was cold. Not the water, but the case in his hands.

He'd been a decent person, or so he believed.

He opened the case. Six bottles, all in rows. His palms were sweaty as he reached down, popping the cap off of one. A Bud Light, it smelled awful, but Dillon knew. Dad always said that alcohol made him feel good. He held the bottle neck, tipping the opening to his lips. His face wrinkled. It tasted terrible, and had this weird breadlike aftertaste. But almost immediately, his tiny body grew warm and numb, feeling like he had fire in his gut. He took another sip, and then another. Suddenly the taste just became normal.

He ran through the whole case of six beers, and sent the empty box adrift on the sea. He felt warm and safe.

Not like the fire Seth lit to the garage. The one he was blamed for.

Though suddenly, the pain of being shouted at didn't even matter. He wiped his lips, laughing at his misshapen reflection in the water, before passing out cold on the dock, with his legs halfway off its wooden edge. And for a long time before he fell to that unconsciousness, he watched the gulls flying by. Free to do whatever they wanted.

-

He shuffled through the hall with his bags. He peered into his brother's bedroom.

"Seth, I'm leaving."

Seth paused the movie he was watching on his very own TV. He looked uninterested, as per usual.

"Where y' goin'?"

"I'm movin' out, mom don't want me here anymore."

His brother scoffed. Dillon lowered his eyebrows. "What? You think that's funny?"

"Nah, just don't get killed. You were always the stupid one." He had this stupid smile on his face, as he tended to. "Now get outta here, I gotta return this movie soon and I wanna finish watchin' it." Callous and uncaring, as Dillon had come to expect. 

"Whatever."

"G'bye, Pickles."

"You know I hate that name."

He stuck his nose in the kitchen. Mom didn't even turn around.

"You're leavin' I see. Finally gonna make somethin' of yourself." Still didn't look up, but he could practically hear her scowling in her voice. "Took you long enough."

"Yeah, love you too." He smacked the wall by the door and shuffled away. His final stop was the living room. The room was dark, the only speck of light being the television as his father sat, clutching a beer in one hand. He barely even turned around. (That's just how his family was.)

His lips curled. He could practically hear the spittle jetting across the room as he cursed.

"Get out." A pause. "I'm sick of seeing you here. You're completely fucking useless. An alcoholic at age 15, for fuck's sakes."

Dillon remained silent, averting his gaze to the floor.

"Get out of here." His father sounded like he wanted to scream. "You belong in a garbage can."

His knuckles turned white with how tightly he balled his fist. He wanted to choke that man. That old, stupid asshole. Married to a dry old witch of a wife, who birthed him and his useless, thankless, IQ-of-negative-1 brother. But instead of speaking out, he walked away. The last thing Calvert heard from his youngest son for years was the sound of the door flying open as he left to pursue the world with no help.

-

"So we ain't doin' dis no more."

His three bandmates each gave half-assed answers. Pickles rolled his eyes. "I'm fine with it. This gig ain't really workin' out for me no more, y'know."

"Yeah." Tony was the first to admit it. "We're all kind of..."

"A fuckin' wreck."

Candynose let out a bout of hissing laughter. Pickles figured he was either still in his denial stage, or incredibly, incredibly high. "We'll just play, y'know, one more show 'n den give 's one up. It's... it's fer the best."

"Mm." Snazz had his fingers laced together, staring at the floor.

"...But lemme say that, uh, dis was... a real good thing while it lasted."

The other three didn't seem convinced.

-

"You ever had tequila before?"

Nathan blinked as Pickles offered him the bottle. He was so cute. A big, hulking mass, with no clue what to do. 

"Uh... n-no."

"Man, it's good. Want a sip?"

"You- you sure?"

"Look, just because I'm an ex-celebrity doesn't mean I can't share a drink wit' you." Pickles quirked a brow. "I mean, I'm still a human bein'." Nathan tentatively took the bottle in his big-ass hand, sniffing the whiskey before taking a sip. And then another. He grinned, giddy as anyone else would be sharing liquor with a famous multi-talented musician. 

"It's awesome."

"I know."

"C-can I have the rest of this?" His fingers twitched.

"Go right ahead, my friend."

He liked it.

-

He sighed in his room, taking a long, cold drink. He couldn't save Toki. He couldn't 'be a hero'. He didn't want a 'brother'. He didn't want it, he didn't want to do anything. He just wanted to sit down and drink, drink, drink. 

All he could do was drink.

That wasn't heroic, it was asinine.

Drink, drink, drink.

Pickles was no hero, he was just an alcoholic. And he didn't know how to change. If he couldn't change, everyone else would have to.


	3. I'll go back to school, get myself a degree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He loved UFOs and junkyards.

Quietly in the corner of the room, he sat. Staring into the pages of a third-grade level book. The words mangled together on the page. All eyes were on him as he tried to make out words, make some sort of sense of the text on the page. His mouth twitched.

"...The..." He squinted. Laughter erupted from the back of the room as his thumbs dug into the page. "Th-the, uh..." Dammit, this word was too fucking long, and the letters all melded together backwards and forwards and every which way. 

"You're in the wrong paragraph, William."

He hissed, nodding. Another wave of giggling.

Why was the next line so weird? His mouth twitched. His tongue clicked within the gap of his teeth.

"Schal... Schaul... Schaulta..."

"That says 'salutations'."

"Schalutationsch...?"

"Learn to read, dummy!" A voice from the back of the class. His skull was smacked by a rolled-up sheet of paper. On the verge of tears, William called out.

"Can schomeone elsche read?"

"William, it isn't that hard." Ms. Lewis was stern, possibly because she was mad about being single. "You're behind everyone else on your reading skills and you need to improve. Just get through the next few lines of text and I'll let you go."

He was sure she was trying to be reassuring, but the thought of reading anymore sounded like hell.

"...Schalumationsch..."

"Salutations."

He swore under his breath.

-

The confessional was a scary place. He sat, his toes just barely touching the ground and his head hung down in shame. He could hear the priest to his left, looking over and seeing a child not even half his age sitting there, with his fingers interlaced.

"Hi. I-isch William."

"What brings you here, my child?"

"I have a confection."

"That's 'confession', dear boy."

He went silent for a moment.

"...Lascht night I wasch, uh..." He tugged at his sleeve. "Out. With friendsch. And me 'n Frankie Hill, kinda..." He swallowed, hoping Reverend couldn't hear it. "...kissched."

"Oh no. That's a sin, you know. Homosexuality is."

"I d- I didn't realische it, I-I'm schorry..."

"Now now. The lord will forgive you, if you really, really pray for it."

"...You sure?"

"Certainly, as you recognize you have done wrong."

"O...okay."

He left church that day, and entered his bedroom. He didn't know why something so warm and comforting could be so wrong. What had he done? His bedroom was covered in sketches of UFOs, and the drawing he added that night was a crude drawing of himself, burning alive. It was painful, but he knew it'd happen someday, if he kept on this path.

-

His lips were sticky, and they tasted bitter. In one pocket he held two-hundred dollars in various increments of money. In the other, a bass pick.

How he got all that money was a long, long story. He did whatever he could. He sold his possessions, he did other people's classwork for money, he did odd jobs for strangers, and most prominently in his mind, he sucked off quite a few men. Of course, he rationalized it. He just needed it for this one thing, after all.

"The one in the window."

He pointed at it. A big, black monster, with deep tones. He'd tested it. It was a thrumming, wild machine. He loved it and he wanted it. 

"You know how to play that thing?"

"I got a book about it."

His bedroom was his sanctuary. He plucked a sultry chord on the instrument, hearing it, though not plugged in, bellow out a deep hum. He could feel the vibrations. It was totally fucking metal, this big, hulking mass of instrumental machinery.

And it was his.

All his.

A few more chords. He had purpose.

-

His legs fell back, he breathed, hissing, choking breaths. Magnus wasn't gentle. He shouted, rolling back into his harsh touch, his lips trembling and mouth half-open. His eyes were glazed over and he whined, legs twitching.

"Good, good. Nice and easy. Good boy."

He coughed and he tasted rum-laden bile in his mouth. His stomach churned painfully. Magnus gripped him hard. And he slammed in deep.

A choked cry pierced the cold air, and he was driven hard into the bedsheets. He could barely even move, he was so fucking drunk, and he howled, gangly legs spasming as he took the brunt of the pain, burning out from the inside.

Magnus' hands met his throat. He allowed it.

"Magnusch... Plea...sch..."

He felt like he was on overdrive as he had hands up his half-removed shirt, crying out and panting. This was a sin. And he'd never, ever regret it. (Okay, he might.)

-

Ishnifus said the words. 'You must be heroes'. Murderface was the one who backed out first.

He knew he wasn't anything like that.

He was a bad, bad person. A negative image. A terrible human being. Taking up space, with all of his issues and his past problems weighing on his back. In comic books, the hero could overcome the trauma, but he just couldn't. He never ever could.

And if Toki came back, things would just go back to normal.

They'd just... go back to normal...


	4. I'm better than everyone, but I'm just a man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Nothing ever happens in Junk World"  
> -William Burroughs

He stared into the vast oceans of Florida's coast. They were speaking.

"Go into the water"

"GO INTO THE WATER"

He blinked. His big, shiny green eyes glimmering in the summer sun. He dipped his toes in from off the dock, kicking rocks over and seeing the life underneath. He trembled, almost with excitement, as the sounds continued. They were real. One step. Two steps.

"Nathan! What are you doing?"

He turned, his black hair swiveling above the water like the arms of a dumbo octopus, as he sank further into the depths. The salt crept into his eyelids and mouth, stinging horrifically until he was pulled out, coughing and hacking as his 5-year-old body rejected the terrible taste and feeling. His mother wept, his father shouted, "Son, can you hear me?!" His eyelids fluttered, and his nose ran. He sat up, rubbing his forehead. He must've fallen in from the dock.

"You're bleeding, kiddo..."

"Go into the water."

His bloodshot eyes darted to the nothingness. He repeated. "Go into the water." His parents were shocked. Rose turned to Oscar, dumbfounded.

"That's- that's the first time he's ever said anything."

-

He sunk into his chair as the teacher stared him down. He was silent. Apathetic. She was mad. She was furious.

"You haven't been doing your homework."

Judgmental stares filled the room.

"...Yeah."

"Why is that."

"I dunno."

"You're in high school. Take some responsibility. Do you know your grade on our most recent test?"

Nathan swallowed, his throat feeling tight. He knew she'd say it in front of his whole class, and nobody would back him up. (He was a solitary bird. People didn't like him, aside from thrill-seeking whores and his various dealers.) He stared at his hands.

"I don't know, ma'am."

"Forty percent out of one-hundred. Do you know what letter that is?"

"...It's, uh..."

"Say it."

"It's an F, ma'am."

"And similarly, that's the grade you're getting for this entire class! Step your game up, or you'll never get into college, or have a real job. Understood?"

"...Mhm."

She turned heel, walking away with a bit of a grumble in her tone. A few of the other students gave Nathan a look. He refused to show any sort of emotion. His face, completely blank, eyes wide. Who knew what he was thinking? Brett Hayward gave him a smirk.

"You really fucked that up, huh."

"...I might've..."

-

"Come on, don't- don't be like that."

"What? What do you know about datin' a pschycopath, huh?!"

Nathan sighed, pressing a hand on Murderface's shoulder and pulling him away from the apartment window.

"We have a new guitarist now. Just- I don't know, get over it."

"You don't get it."

Murderface was right. He really didn't get it. "I'm gonna- I'm gonna fucking, throw myschelf out thisch window, and I will kill myschelf, and you'll be schorry! And Magnusch will be schorry! You'll all wish you had talked me out of it!"

"Murderface. Come on."

"Fuck off!"

"Murderface." Another tense look from the bassist. "Stop--"

"I schaid, fuck off!"

And with that, William Murderface tumbled from the window. There was a loud CRACK, and then a groan of pain. Nathan was thankful they only lived on the second floor. He shouted down to the sidewalk as his other bandmates gathered around.

"Are you okay?!"

His only response was a near-endless pile of agonized wails. One thing Nathan didn't have yet was health insurance.

-

"Good to meet you. Uh, Tukey."

"I ams Tokis."

Nathan gave him a nod of approval.

"Nice to meet you... uh, I didn't really hire you, but Skwisgaar likes you, and... You've sort of brought Murderface out of his depression, I guess."

Murderface was looking on. Damn lucky he only broke his legs from that fall. Less lucky was that he refused to wear a cast, stay put, or let the fractures rest for two damn seconds. Nathan was just sick of having to be his father all the damn time.

"Dat ams goods to know! I'm so happy to be in you's band."

"Yeah... Mhm."

He didn't know how to socialize.

-

He didn't know how to do anything and it was coming back to haunt him. Because he was too normal. No experiences, no life, nothing interesting about him, just a jumble of stupid thoughts in his brain, completely useless and heavy.

And as the universe piled onto him in painfully weighty lumps, he decided.

He had a text to send.


	5. I'm afraid the answer is no

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A response.

"I can'ts does it."

-

"too much for me"

-

"aint my problem"

-

"I'm afraid the answer is no"

Four answers. Result? Negative. Charles pinched the bridge of his nose. Toki was going to die, and all he could feel was frustration. (He hated feeling frustrated, frankly, it limited productivity and just generally made him look immature.)

"It's very clearly your problem." He was talking to his phone. No reply, as one would expect. Ishnifus placed a hand on his shoulder.

"I said, you musn't worry."

"He's completely fucked."

"You are tense." Ishnifus gently massaged at his shoulders, before letting go and allowing him to sink to the bottom of his chair. (That man was odd.) "Relax, my friend. It will all pan out, and things will be righted once more."

"But they all--"

"Relax, I say... It will not last. They must save him. Their brother. Even if they don't believe it..."

A moment of silence. Ishnifus continued.

**"They will be heroes."**


End file.
